To a Saxon Poet
The snowscape of Northumbria has known
And forgotten the footprints left by you.
Innumerable are the days the sun
Has set, gray brother, in between us two.
Slow in slow shadow you would work your lines
Out into metaphors of swords at sea
And of the dread that dwelt among the pines
And of the lonely thing that time could be.
Where shall I seek your features and your name?
Such things as these antique oblivion can
Never divulge. I'll never know what came
Of you when you on earth were yet a man.
You walked the ways of exile. You were strong;
Now you are nothing but your iron song.
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
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